Globe and Mail:  Monday, May. 21 2007

‘Psst. Hey buddy … wanna buy a petunia?”

I sometimes wonder if this isn’t the fate of the flowers that disappear from my front yard: a gruff character emerging from a dark doorway flashing a glimpse of my plants from the inside of a half-opened trench coat.

Each spring, in the dead of night, unseen culprits carefully extract plants, roots intact, from my modest front-yard flower patch. When it first happened some years ago, I suspected the squirrels of my downtown Toronto neighbourhood. I could almost picture them nervously looking over their shoulders, loot held between tiny teeth, scurrying back to their hideouts.

Then, one year, a sign in a neighbour’s front yard led me to reconsider my theory.

The sign was a written plea to thieves to spare these flowers because two little girls had planted them with loving care. Only the most callous big-city squirrel, I reckoned, could ignore such an entreaty. On the other hand, I was a bit skeptical about the ability, even of Toronto squirrels, to read.

I soon learned that other neighbours had also fallen victim to flower thieves. These people were quite certain, however, that humans, not squirrels, were the felons. My faith in squirrels was restored.

Each subsequent spring, soon after planting, I would wake up to find gaping little holes in the soil where I had last seen the colourful petals of my flowers.

In those days, I wanted to believe that the thief might be some poor soul who really needed flowers, selling my $3 petunias on the underground market to survive.

There comes a time in the life of every law-abiding citizen, however, when the burden of injustice simply becomes too great, and when, as depicted in movies, the mild-mannered victim reluctantly becomes the vigilante.

Perhaps it was my sense of community that pushed me over the edge. My front-yard flowers are not planted just for me but for the enjoyment of everyone: passersby, neighbours and visitors.

Perhaps it was that during the same week my bike seat, my bike light and a bike from my back yard had all been stolen. Or perhaps it was the smug regularity of the thefts.

Whatever the reason, after a decade of enduring petunia pinchers, it was time to draw a line in the flower patch.

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I went to my closet and retrieved my heaviest hockey stick. After all, I didn’t know who I was up against: was it a gang of flower-thieving thugs, perhaps part of the organized crime rings we hear so much about; gambling, drugs, prostitution … petunias?

I placed the weapon strategically by my porch window. I bought a spool of black thread and tied it carefully around the roots of my petunias just below the soil. I unfurled the spool like a detonator cable and ran it through the shrubs and in through my bedroom window. I placed my camera and glasses by my bedside. And when I hit the sack, I wound the thread carefully around my finger.

If I felt a tug during the night, I would jump out of bed, put on my glasses, sling the camera around my neck, crawl through the window, grab the hockey stick, sneak up on the thief and shoot a picture.

If the crook was not frozen in shock at the sight of a hockey-stick-toting, pyjama-clad, bleary-eyed maniac snapping a photo, I would chase yelling: “Drop the petunias or else!” (The “else” would have to be determined later.)

The photo could then be posted on lampposts to warn thieves that in these parts one doesn’t mess with regular flower-growing folks.

The first night of the operation was a success, insofar as my flowers weren’t stolen, although I woke up a few times tangled in the thread. This motivated me to modify my plan. It wasn’t just a question of losing sleep, but I worried about getting my finger dislocated by a fleeing bandit.

Under the revised plan, I tied the thread to a bell and positioned it on my bedside table. A tug on the thread would bring the bell crashing to the floor or onto my head. Then, if I hadn’t been knocked out, I would spring into action.

Confronting a thief snared in my trap was not my biggest fear – after all, I had a hockey stick – but I worried that the thief might be someone I knew. In fact, I had just such a dream, perhaps inspired by a news item about vigilantes catching their neighbour with a garage full of stolen plants.

After two weeks of this nighttime surveillance I figured my flowers had grown sufficient roots to discourage any thief bent on a clean heist.

Now, I sleep peacefully again while my petunias bloom securely in the front yard, for the appreciation of all.